


tell me what you want

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Tell me what you want.”</em>
</p><p><em>There are a lot of things Cosima could say, once she’s shooed out the boys and their game. Her mind trips over all of them; she lands on</em> make it go away <em>and it’s such an achingly childish desire that she can’t bring herself to speak. The door clicks shut, and the room stands in silence one second—two seconds—and then she’s grabbed Delphine’s hips, hard, and kissed her.</em></p><p>Canon divergence in 2x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me what you want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharkfights (feartown)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartown/gifts).



> Prompted by sharkfights/tumblr user willgardnr: _hi i need you to write me a fic where instead of cosima kicking out the rune war nerds to get delphine high she kicks them out so she can have i’m-still-kinda-really-mad-at-you sex w her and delphine is /intensely/ willing (like just i’m sorry “tell me what you want”? COME ON Y’ALL WHAT A MISSED OPPORTUNITY) which probably makes cosima madder tbh OK LOVE U BYE_

“You’re running out of time,” says Delphine, and something in Cosima wants to laugh. Does she think she doesn’t know?

And then: “Tell me what you want.”

There are a lot of things Cosima could say, once she’s shooed out the boys and their game. Her mind trips over all of them; she lands on _make it go away_ and it’s such an achingly childish desire that she can’t bring herself to speak. The door clicks shut, and the room stands in silence one second—two seconds—and then she’s grabbed Delphine’s hips, hard, and kissed her.

She has to stand on tiptoe to reach Delphine’s mouth, and the feeling of her heels rising from the floor leaves her nauseous, face fever-hot with something like rage. Her desk chair is close by; she shoves Delphine down on it and her chest thrills at seeing her there, low.

Delphine settles her hands on Cosima’s hips when Cosima straddles the chair, toes bracing against the floor. She only means to push the hands away, push them away because the too-gentle lightness of Delphine’s fingers makes bile rise in her throat, but Delphine’s palms press against the edges of the seat and Cosima’s fingers stay wrapped around her wrists; she holds Delphine’s hands in place and sinks her teeth into Delphine’s lower lip. Delphine makes a soft sound into her mouth. It’s almost _content,_ that sound; it’s Delphine docile, Delphine the corporate pet.

Cosima’s nails dig into the soft skin of Delphine’s wrists almost without her realizing; she tightens her grip and leans in to bite away the gentleness.

When she releases Delphine’s wrists there are angry red crescent marks dug into the white flesh, and Delphine doesn’t so much as acknowledge them. She reaches for Cosima again, tugging her closer, kissing like she aims to drink in Cosima’s entire existence. _Take it,_ Cosima thinks, bitter, and then the tickle starts in her chest.

She digs a tissue from her pocket and convulses on Delphine’s lap. Delphine's concern is palpable; she leans close to see that she’s all right, and when Cosima’s finished coughing she can’t tell if she’s shaking from illness or rage. She forces off Delphine’s coat and throws it on the floor. Beneath the coat she seems smaller, and Cosima grips her waist (she thinks she must be leaving fingerprint-bruises on the skin) and kisses her hard on the lips. The metallic tang of blood lingers on her tongue, teeth, lips, and she can feel Delphine shudder at the taste.

Delphine’s disgust is the first thing that’s felt right in weeks. Cosima kisses harder and pushes in, pelvis colliding at an awkward angle with Delphine’s stomach.

Delphine’s hands are on her again, but harder now, reaching desperate for skin, grappling with her sweater. Cosima takes over, pulling it over her head and tossing it to land on the floor. She coughs, dry, again, before taking back Delphine’s mouth. (And it is a taking, isn’t it; it’s possession, and Cosima wants to scream at Delphine to _fight.)_

She has to get up from the chair to take off her pants and Delphine tries to press her against the desk while she does it; she catches her against it before she’s started, trapping her between her body and the desk with her hands planted on the surface. “Get _off,”_ Cosima nearly growls, and Delphine backs off too easily, easily enough for Cosima to reach for Delphine and press her against the desk in her place.

It’s Delphine’s belt that makes her angry, more than anything; her hands are shaking enough that she can’t quite get it undone. Delphine reaches for it and Cosima smacks her hand away, a gesture that’s as startling in its violence for Cosima as Delphine.

“Cosima,” Delphine murmurs, and it’s the first time she’s spoken. Her voice is underscored with concern, with _Cosima-this-isn’t-like-you._ Cosima’s trembling fingers finally find purchase and she pulls the belt from her belt loops in one motion with a sound like a slapped face.

Delphine’s shirt comes off over her head. Cosima tries for the jeans button too but fury is trembling in her fingertips and she can’t focus through Delphine’s mouth on her neck, maddeningly soft. She gives up on the delicate mechanics and forces her hand inside the jeans, pressing her whole body hard against her. Her fingers find Delphine hot and slick, and the surprise makes Delphine lose her spot on Cosima’s neck to catch her breath. It’s a relief, the release from the teasing gentleness of Delphine’s tongue, the too-soft hints of her teeth. Cosima takes a bruising hold on Delphine’s side with her left hand and two fingers of her right slide inside, palm grinding against her, the back of her hand straining against fabric. Even now, pressed against the desk with Cosima’s fingers inside her, gasping and flushed, she looks almost innocent. When Cosima pauses and Delphine’s eyes open again, they are wide and trusting, trustworthy, and everything about her is such a tremendous lie that Cosima’s teeth scrape harder than she means them to, and when she nips at Delphine’s earlobe it’s vicious enough that she makes a low pained sound.

She moves her hand as much as she can in the confined space, stroking inside, grinding against her clit with the heel of her hand, and Delphine’s legs begin to shake underneath her.

It wasn’t her intention to make Delphine wait, but she feels vindictive suddenly, what with the soft whimpering sounds by her ear and the quaking of Delphine’s legs. She pulls her hand away abruptly, and there’s something deeply satisfying about Delphine’s whine as she steps back and wipes her fingers on her pants.

Delphine’s lips are parted, waiting. She should be angry, has every right to be, the way Cosima has stepped back to look at her like she’s something to be devoured—but she only stares back, eyes wide and unblinking. Sweat has pasted the fine underneath-hairs to her neck. The thudding of her pulse in her carotid, the rivulet of sweat down her exposed stomach—Cosima watches, heartbeat thundering in her ears, until the urge to bite is overwhelming.

She reaches to take possession of Delphine’s waist, and her teeth go for the heartbeat first, the flutter of blood pumping through the artery in her neck (not halting, not being dredged up from her lungs to stain her teeth red).

Delphine speaks again. “Cosima,” she warns, when they can both tell that the harshness of her teeth will leave a mark. “Rachel will—”

“You don’t belong to Rachel,” says Cosima, vicious, and sucks a purple mark into Delphine’s skin; her protests turn to soft breathy sounds. Frustrated still by the withdrawal of Cosima’s hand, she rocks her hips against her, nails digging into her back, an urgent bid for contact. Cosima obliges, just a little, adjusting her legs to let Delphine’s pelvis find purchase against her hip, the sensation just enough to make her want more, to draw Cosima’s face to hers and kiss her as if to consume. Cosima collides with Delphine’s thigh, and the heat of arousal and friction between her legs satisfies some ache in her; the slow burn of it flickers at the pain in her joints, the miserable gnawing anger in the pit of her stomach.

Delphine’s whimpers are soft in Cosima’s ear; she likes the sound, the desperation. She’s not used to Delphine being desperate in this way; she’s good at learning bodies and she knows Cosima’s now when it’s not hard and angry like this, knows where to touch to make her unravel. This Delphine is new, this whining, breathless creature.

Determination lends steadiness to Cosima’s hands; she unbuttons Delphine’s pants and returns her hand to where it was before, teasing with the tips of her fingers and relishing in Delphine’s startled jolt. She presses into her clit with the pad of her thumb, and Delphine murmurs a soft “oh,” a breathy grateful syllable. Cosima pushes down her pants and underwear, vying for a better angle. Delphine is murmuring a litany of _please,_ an appeal for more, and Cosima gives her nothing, nothing but lips at her jaw and the slow steady press of her thumb. Delphine’s hips jerk every time she increases the pressure, and fall back against the desk as it subsides. Her cheeks are flushed, her skin pink-red-white; her breath comes in shuddering sighs that coincide with the flutter of her eyelashes.

Cosima thinks, sickeningly, that she can see how Delphine would make a good pet. She’s gorgeous like this, achingly so, with a delicate sheen of sweat on her skin and her arousal slick on Cosima’s fingers. For a moment she wants to give her what she wants, to see her spasm in release and hear her name grateful on Delphine’s lips—but a bigger part of her, an angrier, sicker part, wants to see if Delphine is a breakable thing.

She releases the pressure. Delphine’s reaction is more visible this time; her body, a moment ago rigid and shaking with anticipation, sags against the desk as she whimpers a high, disappointed sound. The only contact Cosima keeps is her forefinger, tracing against her almost thoughtfully, reveling in the swollen heat. It’s just enough that Delphine stays open-mouthed, and even as she collapses her hips strain forward.

She seems to have realized, finally, that this is a punishment, that she hasn’t been forgiven, that “you’re dying faster than you thought” is not penance. She’s shaking now, and she’s hot and wet and desperate against Cosima’s hand. Her legs are shaking most of all, hands gripping Cosima’s shoulders, and Cosima wonders—idly, or maybe not—how much longer she’ll be able to stay standing.

The trembling gets stronger, and the wondering is no longer an academic exercise. She considers now: the desk, maybe, but her arms are weak and shaking too, and she might not be able to hold herself up, even seated. But lengthwise—

Her hand stays in place as she considers, and every time her finger slides over Delphine’s clit she jerks again, a sudden motion and a sharp intake of breath. She finally draws back to clear off the rest of the desk, and directs Delphine to sit. She obeys, turning as instructed so that her legs hang over the short end of the desk. Cosima pulls off Delphine’s pants the rest of the way, and Delphine unhooks her bra with trembling fingers, letting it fall to the floor. She rests her weight on her hands, and looks at Cosima with something needy on her lips.

Cosima sinks to her knees in front of her. She does nothing for a while, nothing but grip Delphine’s thighs. The angle is such that Delphine’s toes barely touch the floor, and she squirms at the awkwardness, unable to brace herself; Cosima’s breath against her is enough to make her hips buck upwards. Cosima moves her hands to Delphine’s hips, forcing her back against the desk, and she lets out another experimental breath. Delphine’s hips twitch again, involuntarily, but the hands are enough to keep her in place.

With the first press of Cosima’s tongue, Delphine’s breath comes out of her in a high, keening sound. It’s barely anything, barely a touch, and it’s practically enough to send her over. The stroke of Cosima’s tongue is slow against her hypersensitive flesh, and her hands press her against the desk, stilling the erratic motion of her hips. The broken gasping of her breath is almost indistinguishable from sobbing, and Cosima doesn’t look up to see.

“Cosima, please” comes finally, drawn from her mouth with the languid stroke of Cosima’s tongue.

Cosima maintains her pace, drawing away when she doesn’t trust herself to stay slow. Delphine’s hips jerk almost violently when Cosima’s tongue nears her clit, and she lets out a gorgeously satisfying whine when Cosima’s attention turns elsewhere. “Please,” she says again, and then it devolves into _s’il te plait, s’il te plat, s’il te plait._ She’s held taut, every muscle of her, unable to give up on release while Cosima’s tongue is still against her. _“S’il te plait”_ —it comes again, and her arms are shaking under her weight.

Cosima regards her, pink-flushed and open-mouthed, and gives in. She flicks her tongue across her clit, and Delphine convulses against her.

Her moan is long and shuddering and desperately grateful, and Cosima draws it out, fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, lips and tongue relentless now. Delphine’s knees lock around her head and she shakes and groans and her breath comes in ragged sobs.

 _“Arrête,”_ she says finally; _“trop—_ too much.”

Cosima stops.

Delphine’s post-orgasmic skin is patchy red, beautiful, unbeautiful; she lies back now, her arms too weak to hold her. Cosima’s hands have slid to her thighs, but she keeps hold of them because suddenly she feels as if she might drift away. Her hands are shaking again, and her own arousal is still hot beneath her skin.

In several long minutes, Delphine puts herself together and Cosima remembers what it’s like to fall apart. Delphine peels herself off the desk, and begins to dress herself. “Sometime might—come in,” she offers by way of explanation, her tongue tripping over the words as English comes back to her, and Cosima wants to laugh at the absurdity of the statement.

She can’t get herself to stand. Delphine senses this and takes her by the hand, grips tight until she gets up from where she was kneeling. They collapse on the couch, and Cosima grips Delphine’s hands hard and shudder-shakes beside her. “I’m sorry,” she says, watching her hands where they’re wrapped white-knuckled around Delphine’s.

Delphine presses a closed-mouth kiss to her hairline. She should know better than to expect an apology in return, a sorry-I-violated-your-personal-agency, but the silence stings.

Delphine kisses her eyelashes, her knuckles, and murmurs, “Je t’aime.”

It’s nothing like an apology and everything like an excuse, and the knowledge makes her certain. “I love you too,” she says, and doesn’t mean it, and means it more than anything she’s ever said.


End file.
